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Poetry of Le Hinton from WAITING FOR BRION
Obsession
every day i think about you,
every, single day.
i could underline it or write it
in capital letters,
but unless you know instinctively
what that means, i
could never explain it to you.
tell me,
how many people have you thought
about every day,
without face, without voice,
without effort, without fail?
every day, i think about you.
every, single, unmerciful day.
over bloody end.
there are no preludes to hard death
which haunt my soul, only
unopened questions of why
and you and love.
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Manilow Moment
even now
the sappy sentimental stuff
that oozes from all our hearts,
isn’t fashionable.
what does some skinny white guy
know about love. what kind
of coolness is that. only an idiot
would tell her straight
up, “i love you.” only the loser
among us wails for the lost times
with a woman’s smile when she’s gone.
you let her in; she didn’t stay.
now it’s been a while since
it was a while. still your sap runs.
still blatant love isn’t cool. and
in spite of everything
your heart still hurts.
someone said he was sorry for you
and Barry. he was pretending
to forget that his own syrup
caused him to be late for
his dentist appointment
one morning.
he winked and invented a fiction
about staying up late
and getting laid all night
without a nod of sleep.
red eyes explained.
but what about the wet cheeks.
i will tell you about cool.
i saw Bruce on empty because she left him.
i heard Frank drink long to a blond
who belonged to a friend when the
magic might have been his.
John gave it all to his love
whose beauty Georgie, Dick, and Pauli
didn’t see, we too were blind. but she’d walk
through five walls for him,
and that’s more fabulous
than any four.
the thick liquid continues to flow.
Rick stayed at the Café
but knew the mystery and anguish.
Prince or whatever he’s called now,
told me that he’d die for her
and hyperbole wasn’t his intent.
mushy, syrupy, gooey love.
but sap doesn’t always sell
and the metacool dude
thinks he doesn’t need it.
but he’s still trying
to get the feeling, and a miracle
like the rest of us.
and i saw you, tears in eyes,
but composed,
heard you, sob in throat,
unruffled,
smelled your death,
in an unshared bed
so sophisticated, so smooth,
so you. never revealed
your Manilow jones for her, and
now you end alone. so cool.
tell me a story of the last guy who went to
war for a three, four, or five-button suit
to wear to the Grammys. tell me
about the brother who reached nirvana
because his Escalade had a
smooth ride, three DVD players,
and spinning rims.
i’ll tell you about Miguel who
kissed his wife good-bye one last time
after three offspring, 17 years, and
a metastatic cancer that bound them permanently.
there was no shame and no cool in his love or tears.
he surely would have taken her
place if God or magic consented to it.
and you already know of the knight
who has killed, died for his Helen, his Bess,
his Juliet, Nefertiti, or Maria.
and me, full of folly.
by no means will i be the cool one
who coos “she wasn’t that important
i just liked her horizontal dancing.”
i’ll always strip bare like Barry in a
perpetual spring, full of hope.
straight up – i love you
no pretense – i need you.
uncool may it be – i miss us.
the Manilow moment isn’t cool,
but the sap is so sweet.
mine will always flow,
and this one’s for you.
Waiting for Brion
Uptown Poetry Cartel
Iris G. Press
Poetry from Status Post Hope
Megaera
Send E-Mail to: wrightsville517@aol.com
Copyright © 2007 Le Hinton. All Rights Reserved